Demonic Guise
by Asher's Legion
Summary: Demons. Angels. Beautiful women. And 1930s Europe.


With his long elegant fingers curled around the parchment, crushing the thick vellum against his smooth, pallid palm, Asher walked the length of the room, once, twice, three times, before slumping in the ornate beech armchair by the blazing fireplace. His long pale hair fell into his darkened face, masking all but his emerald eyes. Sitting this close to the flames, his face burned and his eyes began to water, but he didn't care. He stared into the crackling red fireplace and let all of his emotions pour out through his eyes: his rage, his despondency. He differed from the rest of them; the Seraphim weren't supposed to feel this; rage as ferocious as the fiercest storm, yes, but not anguish, dysphoria. In their opinion, everything was always for the best, because in the end, it was predestined.

With shaking hands, Asher unfolded the parchment slowly and read the vibrant purple script. At the top of the parchment sat a raised picture of an elegant sword, the symbol of his Chorus, his sect: the Chorus de Sanguis—the Chorus of Blood. Asher sighed loudly and read the words.

Amiel Saariel

14 Sergels Torg, Stockholm, Sweden

May 4, 1932

Seraph of the Chorus de Sanguis:

It has come to my attention that you have violated an Order set forth by the Tribunal. It is your obligation to return to the Sanctuary and comply with a routine hearing. If you should refuse to acquiesce to this request, I, personally, shall escort you, and your hearing will be decidedly less in your favor.

Adiel Zalmael, Chief Magistrate

Asher stood up and moved to kneel in the center of the room. If he wanted to enter the Sanctuary, Asher needed to meditate; to leave the physical world behind and become, if only for a moment, a being of pure energy. He took a deep, cleansing breath through his nose and collected himself. His surroundings slowly drifted away, item by item, into a chilly white mist. He no longer felt the cold stone floor beneath him, or smelled the sweet choking smell of roses from the garden. The gentle lullaby of his mother's piano playing and the soft meow of his cat, Snowball, faded from his senses.

Much like the mist engulfed his body; the sense of dread overwhelmed him. He closed his verdant eyes, light lashes brushing his cheeks, and whispered a goodbye to the life he knew. Getting called this late never led to pleasantries, but he understood the reason for his summons: because of Saturday night. He wouldn't change it for the world, though; her life was much more important than his.

As the mist slowly dissipated, he stood up and surveyed the Sanctuary, the entrance of which changed based on the mood of the occupant. Asher's dejection tainted the air, like the smell of smoke, bringing tears to his eyes and stealing the breath from his lungs. This place, a place of eternal darkness and of eternal light, reflected Asher's inner turmoil. The light of his soul could not survive without the darkness. A sudden wind whipped up, sending his hair into his eyes, but nothing else strayed from place. The gate ahead stood still as the dead and Asher did not feel the sharp sting of the fierce wind against his face.

As he approached the gate—his foreboding increasing with every step taken—he dared a glance backwards; a glance towards the great abyss that stretched behind him, the same one that stretched in front of him. The blinding alabaster ground shone in stark comparison with the obsidian sky—unchanging and uncompromising. The ground crunched softly beneath his feet, like grass covered in frost, but neither grass nor frost had ever existed here.

Asher ran his hand slowly over his face and took a deep, calming breath—a remnant of the time he believed himself to be human. The perks of being infused with the blood of the Immortal were numerous, he assumed. He couldn't die. He hadn't aged a day since twenty, and he needn't eat, drink, or even breathe if it did not please him.

Gripping the cold metal of the gate firmly in his hand, Asher declared in a booming voice, "Amiel, seeking admittance at the request of His Lordship."

The gates swung outwards as Amiel proceeded into the waiting nothingness.

* * *

The circular room suffocated him, no doors, no windows, just an unending row of white figures, clad in milky robes, against a backwash of immaculate white walls. Even their eyes were colorless, like pearls were floating just below the surface, obscuring everything, making them blind to reason. They weren't human. No, not at all.

Each face the same, as if made from the same mold. One was not readily discernible from the other; it wasn't even clear if they were men or women. Probably neither, Amiel concluded.

He had never met with the judges before; never had to. His life, his duty, had always been clear before. Kill the demon to save the innocent, and then walk away. That was his life. Until her.

The dignified voice of the Chief Magistrate pulled Amiel back into the present. "Are you not Amiel Saariel of the Chorus de Sanguis, the most prodigious warrior sect of the Seraphim—the greatest of the angels? And are you also known as Asher James Clarke in the Human Realm?"

"I am sir..."

"Were you not near Jakobs Torg, Stockholm on the night of Saturday the second of May?"

"I was there, sir..." Amiel mumbled.

"Were you in the company of Ms. Lydia Andersson, and did you prevent the Mortician from performing his sacred duty—the acquisition of souls and their conveyance to the next life?" he asked, his face devoid to expression.

Amiel simply nodded, unable to utter even a syllable, because he knew he would not get out of this infraction. Still, the anger boiled just below the surface, contorting his face into a visage of pain. Hunching over, Amiel dug his elegant fingers into the rough denim covering his thighs, his ashen hands looking stark and alien against the black fabric.

"And were you completely aware of the criminality of your actions?"

"I saved her life!" Amiel yelled, on the verge of tears of rage. The room went deathly quiet as the magistrates all glared in unison at the now prone form of the green-eyed beast. "Your honor," he added softly. The last thing he needed to do was anger the Chief Magistrate further.

"In saving said life, you have committed an offense against article A, section 27, of the Book of Holy Axioms written by this Tribunal." The Chief Magistrate sighed, preparing himself for the rest of this endlessly tedious conversation.

"You sent me! You sent me there to save her life! And this is the thanks I get?" Amiel, now kneeling on the hard stone floor, his face a mask of agony, cried openly, tears burning tracks down his cheeks into the unrelenting material of his collar. He bent forward and pressed his face to the cool stone of the floor, looking for all the world like a lost child.

"From the demon," a man to the right of the Chief Magistrate corrected. He sneered at the man on the floor, his long snowy hair, straight and fine as silk, framing a handsome face his aristocratic nose wrinkled in disgust. "We sent you to save her from the demon."

"You wanted me to save her, and then to just let her die, Ramiel?" Amiel stood up now, his hands clenched into fists, his eyes shining with fury. "Do you feel nothing for human life? Are you completely heartless?"

"How dare you judge me!" Ramiel seethed, and jumped from his chair, his hands splayed against the desk. "You are on trial, not I. I have not defied the Immortal; I have not interfered with the life of a mortal. You are guilty, and have admitted it." Sitting back down, he composed himself. "I suggest we vote. There is nothing more to say." His voice echoed around the room, a hollow sound. "All in favor of finding Seraph Amiel Saariel of the Chorus de Sanguis defiant and thus subject to punishment, say aye."

The drone of voices filled the room, echoing off of the walls, and piercing Amiel's ears. He knew this time would come; he could not possibly escape punishment. Each angel, a mirror image of the other, birthed for this task—to judge the guilty, and to punish them. "And what shall my punishment be?" Amiel questioned, staring straight ahead.

"All will become clear."

* * *

His surroundings faded once again, but in an unaccustomed manner; the gradual dissolution morphing into something bestial, frightening. His very essence, his soul, expunged—wrenched through an infinitely small hole. The pain was excruciating, unlike anything he'd ever felt before.

Suddenly, the pain stopped and a feeling of complete consumption smothered Asher.

* * *

Legion smiled, feeling they had once again found a host. Needle-like teeth protruded from their gums, pointed towards the back of their throat. Sitting up, Legion perused the room they were in, their eyes moving from the startlingly white cat lounging in front of a blazing hearth, to the worn parchment—with majestic amethyst ink shining in the light of the flame—fluttering on the floor with the breeze.

With supernatural grace and speed, Legion moved to the small mirror hanging over the fireplace. The cat hissed and jumped at the man, attempting to dig its claws into Legion's calf. Legion swiftly sidestepped the approaching cat, sending it sprawling. Leaning over, they gripped the cat by the scruff of its neck and flung it directly into the far wall. A dull thud soon followed and the cat slid to the floor. Still. Dead.

Peering into the mirror, Legion studied their new face. A beautiful countenance affronted Legion; long silver hair fell neatly to his shoulders and forest-green eyes stood out against pale skin. The possession would change that soon; ethereal beauty would soon change to serpentine. It had already begun. Fine black lines appeared under their skin, like a disease in his blood, their hair turned from silver to raven, and their malachite irises shrank as the whites of his eyes turned to onyx.

_Oh… we have company_. They thought, quirking their head to the side, an expression of sly satisfaction on their face.

* * *

Asher moaned in pain and raised his hand to his head. His eyes opened slowly, as if waking from a deep sleep, and Asher realized he was standing. Swaying on his feet, he leaned against the brick wall and sighed, feeling intense fatigue wash over his body.

_Takes a lot outta ya_, _huh? Fighting us off._

Spinning around, Asher clutched at the wall, trying to keep his balance while facing the intruder. Seeing nothing, he slowly inched closer to the fireplace and pulled the fire iron from its gold inlaid holder. "Who's there?"

_We are._

"Show yourself," Asher answered the unknown voice.

_I can't, you see. We are you._

_What is this creature? _Asher wondered, pressing his back against the wall, to protect his flank.

_We are Legion_, the voice in Asher's head responded.

"Legion," Asher whispered, dropping the fire iron—his only weapon—because it would do no good against Legion.

_Yessss… we seem to be in a nasty predicament here. You see, we were promised a powerful host, one that would be able to hold our true potential, one that would let us wreak our havoc upon mankind. It would appear we are now stuck with each other, my friend. Unless you would be kind enough to vacate this wonderful body?_ Legion paused, as if waiting for an answer. _Of course not; I didn't think one would give up this body so liberally. I guess we will just have to take it from you then._

The pain engulfed Asher's body again—overwhelming his senses—as Legion wrestled him for control. Asher lost, sucked into the ebb and flow of the abyss.

Straightening their back, Legion grinned in triumph and stretched their arms above their head, happy for the freedom a body brought.

Hearing a soft knock, Legion turned abruptly on his heel and marched towards the door. "Ash?" came a soft voice from behind it.

Legion pulled the door open and smiled malevolently at the small girl before him, dressed in a calf-length black dress, her long blonde hair billowing in the wind, a small white rose caught between the strands. Her soft pouting lips turned up in a slight smile and her large blue eyes stared at him, like a deer caught in a headlight. Swimming beneath her beautiful eyes were the memories of years of anguish, but hope shone through. She loved this man, this body Legion inhabited.

"Yes?" Legion responded in a raspy voice.

"Are you well?" Lydia asked, passing Legion and walking into the room, uninvited.

Legion closed the door after Lydia and locked it, grinning to himself. They had not had a tasty young woman for a long time. Yessss... a _long_ time.

"I am fine, my dear," they whispered, slithering, like a great snake, towards the beautiful youth.

Lydia took a tentative step towards Legion and placed a hand against their face, cupping their cheek. "Are you sure? You're deathly cold."

With blinding speed, Legion spun the woman around and clasped a hand over her mouth. "I will not be cold for long, my love." Pulling her head to the side, they exposed her neck, and sunk their fangs deep into the soft flesh. Struggling fruitlessly, Lydia dug her nails into the flesh of Legion's hand. Legion held her tightly and continued to drink deep. Her heart thundered against her chest, pushing the blood out through the wound, as if striving for death. Their mouth worked quickly, attempting to imbibe all of the hot liquid. The blood seeped out of their mouth, down their chest, and into a puddle on the floor. Having drunk till the body ran dry, Legion shoved the lifeless corpse away from them and crouched down towards the floor. The tile, positively slick with blood—a wide glossy pool—enticed him. Legion's distended tongue slowly slipped from between thin, blanched lips to immerse itself in the vermilion nectar. With a moan of ecstasy, Legion greedily lapped at the cooling liquid.

When the fluid had all but congealed completely, they stood back up, licking the blood from their lips. Blood had dried on their face, their chest—like paint—staining it crimson. Sated, Legion relinquished their control over the body, allowing Asher to return, to see what his body had done.

* * *

Gasping for breath, Asher returned to his body with the sickeningly sweet copper taste of pennies coating his tongue. He glanced around manically, completely stupefied by his surroundings. When the haze lifted from his mind, allowing him to truly see what had happened, Asher dashed from the room, and collapsed outside in the garden, the sweet smell of the flowers no longer comforting him like they used to. Digging his fingers into the hard dirt, a heavy sob escaped through closed lips as tears fell from wide-open eyes. A lone, white rose lay behind him crumpled, crushed under his boots. Blood dripped from a petal, agonizingly slow.

_You killed her_, came a manic whisper in his head. _You are the only one to blame. Your love killed that poor girl._

* * *

The carcass of the beautiful youth lay motionless on the floor, its body stiff from rigor mortis. Suddenly, its mouth opened wide, literally splitting the skin of its face in half, drawing a long line from ear to ear. Sharp pointed fangs ran along the inside of its mouth and a thin, forked tongue slipped out between its lips. Slowly, her eyelids fluttered open, revealing the stygian depths held below. The girl—or more precisely, the girl's body—carefully got to her feet, then cocked her head, listening to something only she could hear: the soft sounds of children playing in the streets.

With long strides, Lydia gracefully made her way towards the door. She opened it and stepped out into the dismal light. The sun finished setting only an hour or so ago and the kiddies were still out, waiting to be called inside.

One boy—a boy of no more than eight—sat alone in the deep shadows of an alleyway. His blond hair, the color of butter, fell in his eyes as he idly ran the tip of his finger over the dirt-covered streets below him, tracing patterns.

"You know," Lydia called out in her native Swedish. "You shouldn't be out here this late all alone." She held out one colorless hand to the young boy. "Are you hungry? I know I am." A gently smile curved her pouting lips. "Would you like some food, my dear?" She crooned. "I have chocolates."

The boy's eyes lit up at the mention of sweets and he gladly took her hand, jumping to his feet. She slowly led him to the house, gesturing him inside.

Nothing but a hushed gasp and a muffled thud followed, floating on the cool night air.


End file.
